Joining The Dots
by Linxcat
Summary: "Everyone knew it, and that was all everyone knew. A dot dot dot relationship. One of those. And nobody had been able to join up the dots." - Unseen Academicals. Assorted one-shots and drabbles exploring Lord Vetinari and Lady Margolotta's relationship.
1. Of Squeezes and Stations

"_Wasn't that nice?" said Vetinari, "Did you see that they held hands all the time?"_

_At the doorway, Nutt turned round. "Oh, just one more thing. Thank you for not posting archers up in the gallery. That would have been so…embarrassing."_

"_I shall drink to your success, Margolotta," said Vetinari as their footsteps died away. "You know, I seriously intended to proposition Miss Sugarbean to be my cook." He sighed again, "Still, what is a pie to a happy ending?"_

_-Unseen Academicals, Terry Pratchett_

-x-x-x-

"Well!"

Lord Vetinari couldn't help but smile at his affronted companion, "Madam?"

"Well…Nutt spoke rather above his station, did he not?" Ladyship spluttered (spluttered was, in fact, entirely the wrong word, as vampires never did anything nearly as inelegant as a splutter, but it was as close to spluttering as vampires got), turning to the Patrician irately.

"I believe he requested to be called _Mr_ Nutt, madam." Vetinari saw her expression, swallowed a laugh and carried on rather quickly, "And I don't believe he said anything particularly offensive. He was very polite."

"He cut me off!"

"I think, perhaps, if it is not going too far to say so, that you are _more_ upset that he is no longer afraid of you - and no longer needs you?"

Lady Margolotta's mouth twitched, and then after a few seconds of internal deliberation, the anger drained from her face. "Perhaps that is the case." she conceded reluctantly, "But, he _did_ speak rather above his station."

"A little, possibly." Vetinari looked sideways at her, "But you said that he had worth, and that he had become. I imagine that meant a lot to him."

There was a brief moment of silence as the two powers of state stood side-by-side in the great hall of the palace and analysed the contents of the other's head.

The moment passed.

"When I last encountered Miss Sugarbean, she assumed that I was my librarian. She told me, in no uncertain terms, that she thought I had been far too harsh towards Nutt. I realise now that she may have been correct."

Vetinari nodded, and Margolotta felt as if she had passed some sort of unspoken test, the air becoming clear of any tension. She continued.

"She also said that, apparently, everybody knows that I am your - what was that amusing word she used? Oh - _squeeze_."

Lord Vetinari arched an eyebrow, "Do they really? Dear me." Ladyship laughed and he offered her his arm. "Shall we?"

She studied it for a few moments, then took his hand instead. His raised his eyebrow further.

"Madam?"

"Oh, don't be coy, Havelock; you were the one who made the comment about holding hands." She continued to smile in her practised, although no less radiant, way.

"I did indeed." he wriggled his fingers experimentally, "It is quite comfortable, I suppose, though a little strange."

"Perhaps it is not for everyone." Ladyship acknowledged.

It was interesting to note that neither party released their grip. Whether it was a silent political statement or simply out of the long-held affection of their…relationship, even they could not be sure. It was probably both as, sadly, in their current positions, the two tended to overlap.

They walked back up the grand staircase together, then made their way to the Oval Office's balcony. The balcony was ideal in that it offered a perfect view of the centre of the city while leaving the viewers almost invisible.

The invisibility being the ideal part.


	2. Of Centennial Festivals and Chocolate

"_Zer humans don't often involve me in zheir politics, Havelock; zer verevolves tend to give more satizfyink verdicts."_

"_So you have no political experience whatsoever?"_

"_Not so! I said zhey don't _often_ involve me, impertinent boy."_

"_I'm sorry, madam, I did not mean to offend you - I was merely inquiring."_

"…_And I am sorry for shoutink. Also, I zhink Margolotta should be sufficient in zer circumstances, Havelock; I am not your aunt."_

"_I am not going to pursue that mental image."_

"_As zhey say - zhat vay lies madness. But, I digress! I have, on zer occasion, mediated betveen peasants. Vonce, I even declared a public holiday - how is zhat for traditional politics, and vorkink viz zer masses, eh?"_

"_A public holiday?"_

"_Yes. It vas a long time ago, vhen I vas a lot younger, and, I must confess, razzer arrogant. A young man vas caught stealink sveetmeats and flowers and, for some reason, zer villagers decided that _I_ should be zer von to declare his punishment. He pleaded vis me, sayink zhat he stole zhem for his vife's birthday, to put a smile on her face - I still remember his vords, even now - but zer punishment for stealink vas death, and I could not spare him for sentiment. His romanticism touched me, zhough, and so I told him zhat every hundred years, on his vife's birzday - zer fourteenzh of February - zer village of Bonk vould celebrate his great love for her."_

"_Very touching, I'm sure."_

"_You zhink? He told me to piss off. Zhat is humans for you, zhough; zhey believe zhat zer Disc stops movink zer moment zhey leave it. No offence."_

"_None taken. Although, we are not particulary permanent, so you cannot entirely blame us."_

"_I suppose. Anyvay, I am ashamed to say zhat I had him killed on zer spot for his rudeness. Not zer most diplomatic of actions, I realise, but I never had to deal viz zheir petty squabbles again."_

_-x-x-x-_

Lady Margolotta ran the tips of her fingers over the ivory Thud pieces that occupied her side of the board, her expression strangely clouded as she examined the layout of the miniature trolls and dwarves.

She played the trolls this time. She picked up one and turned it over in the palm of her hand, before replacing it. Thud was such a complex game; any fool could win it, but it took true consideration to really _play_ it. One almost forgot that it was a mere frivolity.

But it wasn't anymore, was it? She wasn't sure if it ever had been.

"Good afternoon, Igor."

After all these years, it still surprised Igor that she could hear him enter. She imagined he found it rather irritating, as Igors were renowned as the _best_ creepers, and smiled to herself, still regarding the Thud board.

"Is that package for me?"

"Of courthe, Mithtreth."

"How exciting." She murmured, then turned, finally, and took it from his mismatched hands, a catlike gleam of delight in her burgundy eyes. It was small and carefully wrapped, and at once Ladyship knew who it was from; only a man with Drumknott's precision could create a bow quite that symmetrical. She was half tempted to leave it unopened to show Miss Healstether, who appreciated such things, and incidentally rather appreciated Drumknott too.

But the curiosity was too much. She tugged gently at the string of the parcel, then pulled the paper off carefully, setting both aside for her fastidious librarian who, no doubt, would find use for them again.

"Igor?"

Igor halted in the doorway, "Yeth, Mithtreth?"

"Do you know what the date is today?" she asked, unable to entirely swallow her smile.

"The date, Mithtreth? It'th the fourteenth of February. RudeBugger'thWifeDay."

"Thank you, Igor."

Ladyship ran her crimson nails over the beautifully ornate box in her hand, before lifting the lid and, after a moment of deliberation, selecting a small, heart-shaped chocolate with a caramel centre to place delicately in her mouth. She closed her eyes briefly, savouring it. Then she replaced the lid, hugged the box to her chest and smiled her radiant smile in a rare moment of girlish delight.

You could not deny that Lord Havelock Vetinari had an exceptional memory.

-x-x-x-

"The post, my Lord."

Lord Havelock Vetinari glanced up from his paperwork as the clerk passed him the various articles. "Ah, thank you, Drumknott."

He leafed through the letters with what appeared to be mild disinterest, and then said in a voice that hovered on the border of sarcasm, "You wish to say something, Drumknott?"

The young man flushed, "The parcel, sir."

"The one that was hidden inside the Uberwald package, with the dainty wrapping and the ribbon that sits impressively equidistant from each side of the box, an effect only a woman who likes, say, new ring-binder designs, could achieve?" he smiled, more than amused, at his rather reddened head clerk, "Alright, Drumknott; I will satisfy your uncharacteristic curiosity."

The perfectly folded wrapping was removed to reveal a plain, thin wooden box. It contained twenty small discs of Uberwald's finest 85% cocoa dark chocolate with a larger, white chocolate disc sitting in the middle.

"…Chocolates, my Lord?"

"And from dear Lady Margolotta," Vetinari murmured, "You remembered to send that last package for her?"

"Of course. If Mr Lipwig has managed to maintain the postal service's usual speed, she should receive it today." Drumknott affirmed, a little put out that his organisation had been questioned.

"Capital." The Patrician paused, then rested his steepled fingers against his lips, regarding the box of chocolates thoughtfully, "Drumknott, do you know what day it is today?"

"Tuesday, my Lord."

Well, it was a little-known Uberwaldian holiday, very few born-and-bred Morporkians knew of it.

_Perhaps… _"Drumknott, what is your position on introducing new public holidays?"

Drumknott frowned slightly, "I wouldn't advise it, sir; they do disrupt the palace's efficient schedule horribly."

Vetinari held back a laugh for the sake of Drumknott's confusion. _Or maybe not._


	3. Of Lords and Labiality

**AUTHOR'S NOTE - Set during Unseen Academicals, as we are never actually told _when_ Lady Margolotta arrives, and the opportunity to write drunk!Vetinari was too good to miss :)**

"Havelock Vetinari," Small hands were propped firmly on elegantly sloping hips, "I do believe you're _drunk_!"

A finger was lifted, "That would be _Lord_ Havelock Vetinari, please. And, yes, as a skunk, my dear lady."

Lady Margolotta gave the Patrician a long look, eyebrows raised; it was the kind of look that said, 'I know why you did it, how you did it, and know all you expect to happen because of it. But…_really_?'

"You really would go to any lengths to get them to trust you, wouldn't you?"

"Any lengths? I wouldn't say that." he smiled a little more readily than usual, "How was your journey?"

"Uneventful, thank you."

"And how have you been?"

"Quite well, thank you."

Margolotta slinked over, placing herself delicately on the edge of his desk, and then deftly snatched his wine glass. Vetinari's hand went for the invisible drawer, but a bolt of silver had already emerged from her sleeve, and the two blades clashed in mid-air.

"Too slow, my dear." Ladyship purred, smirking over the rim of the glass before downing it. She wrinkled her nose in distaste, "Good gods, if the food they give you is the same quality as the stuff that they're giving you to drink, no wonder you're so thin. _Chateau Maison_? Eurgh."

Vetinari watched her, amusement dancing in his eyes, "That was not from my kitchens. I believe that they Unseen University staff abide to the age-old tradition of bringing out the less expensive drink as the guests become more drunk."

"The Unseen University?" Lady Margolotta stretched luxuriously, then waved a hand to refill the glass with a wine more to her taste. She sipped it reflectively, "It is only half past twelve. You're home very early for a University party."

"I'm afraid drunken men are only useful up to a point, and then they become ridiculous."

"Ah, that could be said of all men, not only the drunkards."

Vetinari arched an eyebrow, "Harsh words, madam."

"Just harsh enough." she gave him a catlike smile, "But I interrupted you. Do carry on."

"Well, I entered my study from the roof, and through the window. I suppose that was the alcoholic influence, although I feel totally coherent in every other aspect. At any rate, Drumknott will witness me returning to the palace in, say, an hour or so." Vetinari rested his chin on his steepled fingers and regarded her thoughtfully, "But, I must ask - to what do I owe this visit? You are not due in the city for another few days. Commander Vimes will be most...frustrated that you have arrived without his knowledge."

Margolotta placed her now empty glass down on the desk and leant back on her hands, still managing to retain her regal air in the relaxed position due to her natural vampiric grace. The feline grin returned.

"I am only visiting for the night, I will return to my travelling party in the morning. I do not wish to cause him undue frustration." she waved a hand dismissively, "I am just doing this and that, just running a few errands. People do so jump to conclusions when they see Igor purchasing several gallons of animal blood in the middle of the night, and I wanted to check over my accomodations. I am incredibly particular about my coffins, as you know."

"You travelled ahead by bat?"

"Yes, but thankfully Otto - you have met Otto? Such a charming boy, doing so very well in your city with Mr De Worde - well Otto always keeps a spare set of clothes for me, and then there's dear Salacia - but you already knew about that."

"Would you expect any less?" he asked, smiling again. It was a well-perfected smile, one that promised benevolence if you were good but somehow reminded you implicitly that he _was_ a trained assassin.

Margolotta smiled back, lengthened incisors glinting in the low light, "Of course not."

"Capital. Ah, but I interrupted you this time. Do go on."

"I wasn't going to say much more." She sat forwards now, idly examining the items on his desk. She paused for a few moments on the _No. 1 Boss_ mug, then shook her head and carried on, "It is only polite to visit your host when you sneak into his city. I thought it would be nice to have a casual conversation - off the records, as it were. I thought the late hour would not be an issue, as rumour has it that you do not sleep." She lifted her gaze at this point and met the twin lakes of icy blue, "That bad habit wasn't my fault, was it?"

"Come, Margolotta, you know that no conversation is ever _truly_ casual." he replied, expression not changing.

"How about off the records?" she leant in closer, then laughed, "Ah, after thirty years you still cannot control your heartbeat."

Vetinari's mouth twitched as the vampiress's nose suddenly became at a very close proximity to his own, "I take it that you like what you hear, then?"

"Havelock Vetinari," Ladyship purred, "That sounded ridiculously like a pick-up line."

"_Lord_ Havelock Vetinari, my dear lady." said the Patrician, and the gap closed.


	4. Of Corsetry and Cowering

_Utterly ridiculous_.

Lord Havelock Vetinari regarded the mess of corsetry; it was like a very complex game of dominos, only with ribbons and pointless little frilly bow bits and hooks that appeared to hook onto absolutely nothing, and the unfortunate side affect that, unlike dominos, if you made a wrong move they didn't just all fall over, they _did up tighter_.

His eyes narrowed minutely, face impassive.

"Everything alright, Havelock?" Margolotta asked sweetly, pushing back her hair and watching him over her shoulder, absolutely not smirking smugly.

There was a pause.

"I am going to outlaw corsets."

"On what grounds?"

He could work out the physics of juggling with one glance, and juggle a whole city's political system with his mind. He could make half the city soil their pants with the lifting of one eyebrow.

He considered briefly, in a somewhat detached manner, that the Disc could forget sonkies - corsets with lacing like this were the real reason the city's overcrowding issues were being curbed. You couldn't get within a foot of woman without encountering some sort of ridiculous intricate lacework with the strength of iron bars. He was going to have to have a word with the Dressmakers.

"The same reason I outlawed mimes; the greater good."

He lifted one end of a ribbon between his fingers, tugged gently, and…yes, he nodded triumphantly as the criss-crossing lacework unravelled and he was able to access the hooks, slipping them all off with a single hand movement. The two halves of the corset separated cleanly and slipped apart.

"It appears I've finally found a dressmaker good enough to challenge you." Margolotta turned and grinned - victorious and infuriatingly radiant.

Vetinari glanced at a small pocket watch, "Indeed. Forty seven seconds; a personal best for you, I believe."

"Capital," she laughed, but he'd already stood up, climbed off the bed, and was halfway to the door.

"You think you're so funny."

The minute curling of his lips directed towards her as he turned back was so genuine that one might have assigned special meaning to it. Especially as its recipient was sat on his bed, distinctly corset-less. "I beg to differ. I _know _I am so funny."

And then the lights went out.

"That's cheating, Margolotta."

Lord Vetinari had better night vision than most men, but there was a difference between darkness and total absence of light. He sensed Margolotta's presence beside him before he felt her deft fingers undoing his shirt buttons.

"The roof?" he stilled her hands with his own.

"Yes."

"How many?"

"…Four." he could hear the grin in her voice, and if the moonlight had invested in better dramatic timing it would have glinted pleasingly off her incisors, "Around the wrong window, though."

"Now, Margolotta," he murmured, leaning forwards until he could feel her hair brush his cheek, "You've done something cruel, haven't you?"

Her voice was teasing as she darted away into the blackness, "I'm afraid those plucky _Times_ reporters won't get much sleep tonight."

"A secret bedroom in the palace's west wing?"

"With an underground passage connecting to the Uberwaldian Embassy's cellar, no less."

"Inventive."

"Practical. I wish it were true. Much easier than arriving here _a la bat_."

Vetinari crept towards her voice carefully, "No corsets with the bats, though."

"Oh, but the corsets are the fun part."

He consulted the map of the room in his head, and altered his course to avoid barking his shin on the bedpost. His fingers brushed duvet, then window ledge.

"I can think of many things far more fun, madam."

"Paperwork? Politics?"

"This." he gripped the curtains, then pulled them apart, a beam of moonlight illuminating the area where he'd - correctly - suspected her ladyship to be hiding. The silver light made her pale skin almost luminescent as she stood in front of the dresser, hands on hips and amused. His mind informed him (rather belatedly, since the rest of him was _very much _aware) that she wasn't wearing her skirt anymore. Or anything anymore, for that matter.

"Everything alright, Havelock?"

He effected nonchalance expertly and nodded, "Of course, my Lady."

She tilted her head to one side thoughtfully, listening for the sounds of heartbeats, as he slowly made his way over to her. "Poor Mr De Worde and his friends have gone home now."

"They'll try again tomorrow, no doubt."

"No doubt."

Vetinari stopped pointedly. Three feet of twilight stretched out between them.

"You're treading a fine line, Margolotta…" he murmured.

"So are you. So are we all." for a split second, her face worked, as if she were debating whether or not to depart something troubling her, "Sometimes I-"

"Yes?"

Her gazed moved to the window, the moonlight highlighting the deep burgundy of her eyes. It was amazing how a simple reflection of solar energy could create such an illusion of vulnerability. She folded her arms, a natural reflex to the cool breeze hitting the body that had never felt cold.

"Nevermind."

He closed the gap between them, placing his hand gently on her shoulder; somehow, it was more intimate than a kiss or caress could ever be. He said, without speaking, _I know_.

They stood there for a moment, his chin resting atop her head, her forehead against his chest. She exhaled and stepped back, the radiant smile returning.

"Lord Havelock Vetinari!"

He raised a hand in a slow mock salute, "Madam?"

"Look at you! Shirt half-buttoned, tie untied, and gods knows where your waistcoat and outer robes are!"

"I believe you threw them onto the chair," he gestured towards them with one fluid movement of his wrist, "Though at any rate, they are now on the floor."

She regarded them, tapping her lips playfully with a finger. He felt himself instinctively growing wary; when a vampire becomes playful, one is meddling in things man was meant to not wot of. Without even needing to glance downwards, he took a calculating step forward.

There was a crunch. Margolotta's eyes narrowed in a way that would make whole mountain ranges whimper and lie down flat. He smiled back.

"You didn't."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

She swept the corsetry up from the floor, "I can't believe you put your _shoes_ back on specifically…"

"Specifically? I don't believe I ever took them off. I do apologise for my clumsiness, however."

Margolotta considered the hooks and ribbons, all bent and ripped past use. With the smallest of sighs, she snapped her fingers, the corset disappearing into a small pile of ash into her palm. "I shall have to commission Amelia to make Lady Mortal another, and this time I assure you it will be _devious_."

"Lady Mortal?" Vetinari asked, amused, "Her first name being…?"

"Toga."

"I was afraid it would be _Goat_."

"The Mortals are a highly respected, though rather…little-known noble family from Von Blintz, you know." She crossed the room and sprinkled the ashes out of the window, "We're awfully good friends."

"Well, do not trouble poor Lady Toga with another order; Ankh-Morpork boasts the best seamstresses after all, so I shall purchase one for you and send it along."

"How very generous of you, Havelock."

The two powers of state stood in the middle of the room facing each other, examining the contents of each others' heads. It tended to happen rather a lot.

"It appears the mood has rather gotten away from us," Margolotta sighed. Vetinari arched an eyebrow.

"From you, maybe."

"Hmmm. Your fault, you know." She walked back over to the bed and sat down, legs crossed elegantly, on the end of it, then examined her nails nonchalantly.

Vetinari smiled, and it would be difficult not to attach a very distinct meaning to it this time, as he slowly approached her. "Allow me to make amends, then."

-x-x-x-

"What a magnificent parcel, Igor. Is it for me?"

Igor's larger eye twitched slightly in irritation; Ladyship had always had the _knack _for knowing exactly when he was behind her. "It ith indeed, Mithtreth."

She turned on her chair, stroking the small dog in her lap absently as she reached for the large package, "How exciting. I do love getting parcels. And with no address? Stimulating indeed."

"It wath thent via Igor, Igor's couthin in Ankh-Morpork, to me. Ath there wath no note, I thuthpected it would be for you."

Ladyship slipped a small dagger from her sleeve and ran it down the side of the packaging, splitting the brown paper and sliding the large box out from inside. She opened it.

A corset, coloured cream with beautiful crimson stitching sat inside. She lifted it and turned it over; a tremendous array of deep maroon lacing joined the two halves, criss-crossing ribbons covered the split in an arrangement more complicated than any she'd seen before. Quite a feat, since there were only so many ways one could lace a corset.

"Hmm." she murmured, suspicious. She placed one hand on either side of the adjoining ribbons and bows and stupid hooks that looked like they did absolutely nothing…

…Because they didn't actually do anything. She tugged, and with a satisfying _czzzch_-noise the two parts of the corset separated cleanly. Her eyes narrowed. The mountains cowered. A small piece of paper dropped into her lap. She read it.

"_Veni, Vidi, Velcro…_*_"_

_*which means, if your Latatian is a little rusty - I came, I saw, I got rid of all the bloody fiddly bits._


	5. Of Imagination and Imaculateness

Rufus Drumknott was a man who possessed, by the words of his employer, 'a cultured lack of imagination'. There were some Patricians, Drumknott was sure, that would have taken advantage of that.

For example, some employers might have used the Oblong Office's rather sturdy desk for something other than working at - Rufus was fairly sure that it could feasibly hold the weight of two - and then not _cleared up_ afterwards. As Patrician, Vetinari was well within his rights to delegate someone to attend to those…indiscrete messes, but when Drumknott had returned later in the day, it was delightfully easy to act as if he was none the wiser.

A different Patrician might have not had an assassin's reflexes and timing. Although, while the opposite ends of the room were natural places to spring to when doors were unexpectedly knocked upon, they were not particularly practical for casual conversation, rather increasing suspicion towards the sort of behaviour that he really did not wish to dwell upon. Whenever Drumknott entered the Oblong Office, his Lordship and her Ladyship were always an acceptable distance apart and he would hear their cordial, polite conversation commence the moment he became within earshot.

Other, more careless Patricians may have not have taken into consideration their own vocal range in these sorts of situations. One afternoon, Drumknott had discovered a young maid at the Office door, ear pressed to the wood; when he'd questioned her on what she was doing, she'd replied, rather disappointed, that all she'd heard all afternoon was _bloody boring small talk_. Apparently her Ladyship had made an interesting noise at one point, but that was only because his Lordship had trodden on her skirt.

Drumknott just didn't understand the women of the city's preoccupation with the Patrician's private life. Didn't she realise that he had no private life - because he had no true privacy? Besides, if she'd really been interested, not looking for gossip, she would have noticed that Lady Margolotta had been wearing a knee-length skirt that day. Drumknott kept the thought to himself, and hurried her away.

And then one day - a perfectly normal day filled with pleasantly punctual occurrences, like any other well-structured day - well...

He'd knocked twice on the door, as he always did, then entered. When he'd tried to remember it later, his brain had been strangely incompliant and he found himself wondering if he'd just imagined the whole thing...but he really was quite incapable of fancy, and he'd been so _sure_...

What, on first recollection, before he'd dismissed it as ridiculous, he remembered upon entering was what he'd been certain that he would never have to witness, with a boss like his Lordship; her Ladyship Margolotta was sat on the desk - not quite sprawled, for she was a vampiress and elegant in all situations, but there appeared to be something very unplanned about her stance - with her back arched and one leg lifted. Lord Vetinari was stood in front of her, at a closer proximity than he'd ever seen the man with anyone, his outer robe was missing and there was a rip in his sleeve at the bicep, in a manner that suggested he'd been sliced by something razor sharp. Both were breathing heavily, Lordship's face was decidedly more flushed than his usual calm pallor, and Drumknott was sure that if she had not been undead, Ladyship's face would have been the same.

And then the scene shifted before his eyes; Lord Vetinari turned, a flash of silver disappearing into his sleeve, suddenly at a sociably acceptable distance, and no matter how hard Drumknott searched he could not locate the rip again. He had glanced aside to find Ladyship perfectly composed, legs crossed daintily, hair falling in curls no longer disturbed by his Lordship's fingers, and lighting a cigarette with hands that the clerk was sure only moments ago had been grasping the front of Lordship's robes.

"Drumknott?" Lord Vetinari prompted, arching an eyebrow, face quite pale and devoid of the heat of passion.

"I..." Her Ladyship turned to him, mirroring his Lordship's expression before exhaling a spiral of blue smoke and smiling radiantly.

Drumknott had the strangest inclination that, inside their shared mutual genius, they were laughing at him. He shook it off and thankfully, coherent speech returned swiftly, "The Postmaster is here for his appointment, my Lord."

"Capital. Send him in when he is a suitable distance from a mental breakdown."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Oh and - Drumknott?"

He forced down his desire to run, or at least walk very hastily, through the double doors, and turned smartly on his heel. The brilliant smile was fixed towards him once more. "Ladyship?"

"Would you be so good as to bring up some tea?"

"Of course, my Lady."

"Thank you."

"I do believe we have quite upset him." Margolotta murmured, biting on a grin.

"I am sure there will be no lasting damage. He has his own sanity to consider after all; he will dismiss it all as a product of taking some off cheese at lunch, or some other mundane explanation, and proceed hereafter as usual." Vetinari examined the slice taken out of his sleeve, "It would probably be best to invest in some fencing foils, however."

Margolotta curled her lip, "Good gods no! Fencing is _dire_. I have never held any interest in it. What is the point of fighting if there is no danger? It is not a real fight, merely a construction."

"And is it danger that you seek, madam?"

All of a sudden, there was the knife in her hand again, and she twirled it absently, smiling her radiant smile that somehow managed to hold all the peril in the world between the sharp incisors. She purred, "Danger is what we all seek, Havelock; a perfect balance between the terrifying and the mundane. Surely you have realised this?"

Vetinari took a step closer, "And you and I, Margolotta? Can you name one mundane occurrence in our lives?"

"Paperwork." she managed, as Vetinari's head dipped to her neck, "And fencing."

"We don't fence. And paperwork is riveting." he murmured against her skin.

Margolotta pulled away, "Are you teasing, or were you just looking for an appalling construction pune?"

"The pune was quite unintentional, I assure you." he smiled at her well-practised look of affront as she removed herself from his arms.

"You know I cannot abide teasing, Havelock."

"Indeed. That is why it is so amusing. Surely you have realised this?"

She frowned at him over her shoulder. He held out one hand, perhaps as a peace offering, perhaps a request for the return of intimacy. Either way, she held out her own hand in response - a dagger shot from her sleeve into her palm and she flourished it at him. "En garde, mon cheri."

A sharp slither of metal appeared between his outstretched fingers, "Oui, madame."

"But not now." she traced his jawline with the flat of the blade, "As Drumknott is nearly at the doors, and I fear his mental condition is not strong enough for a second interruption. He knows not what he sees, as it were."

"Madam," said Lord Vetinari with a smile, "I do not believe he has enough imagination to misconstrue our activities twice in one day. And that is a trait that I quite value."

"Hmmm, I'm sure it is." Agreed Lady Margolotta, and as the double knock sounded on the doors, she laughed and sliced clean through his sleeve. "But, I challenge you to explain _that_ one away!"


	6. Of Strangeness and Strangers

How was he to know who they were?

He'd had no reason to be suspicious. It wasn't as if they'd done anything _strange_. On the contrary, they'd been a perfectly normal couple on a perfectly normal stay. He'd hardly even noticed them.

Well, okay, he'd noticed them. The master had paid the entire six month fee for their finest chalet upfront, _and_ it was in the right currency, which was a rare thing to behold. The exchange rate back from AM$ was so poor that he was delighted to finally get the full worth of his money.

But apart from that, there hadn't been anything odd at all.

And no, he didn't know their names, but there was nothing strange about that; Quirm was hot most of the year around, had good wine, good food, had lots of lovely beaches and was, most importantly, nice and far away from the Disc's bigger cities. This meant that, as the finest chalet letter in the area, he was often host to rich men and their mistresses who were fleeing from scandal, and generally preferred not to have their names down on record. As long as they paid up front, he had no problem with that. As a result they had a rather large influx of _Mr and Mrs Smith_s in their registry book.

They'd arrived in the town in a black coach – nothing weird about that, black _was_ the new red, after all – and signed in, bringing one maid and one…well, he wasn't a manservant, but butler didn't quite fit, so it was the best word they could find for the young man. The master had spoken in fluent Quirmian during their whole conversation, even when Francois had made a point of addressing him in Morporkian, and had carried barely a trace of an accent. In every other conversation that he overheard, the master and mistress spoke entirely in Uberwaldean, a language that Francois had never learnt, as very few members of the undead community seemed to be interested in hot weather. Bobbie, the cook, was the only person he knew who could speak the language, but he seemed oddly reluctant to eavesdrop.

And yes, the mistress had worn a rather large floppy hat and sunglasses the whole time, and had required a complicated arrangement of parasols and large umbrellas to keep every inch of her out of the sun as she lay on the beach recliner, but it was ridiculous to jump to huge conclusions from something so trivial. All women became concerned about their skin when they reached a certain age, although, as his wife had pointed out enviously, the mistress had such smooth creamy skin that it was incredibly difficult to pinpoint her age.

His wife, Hélène, was a very superstitious woman, the sort of woman who just _knew_ things about people from the first moment she looked at them. She'd had few reservations about the master, just gently remarking that he would not be a man to trifle with, but she had been initially unsure about the mistress (Hélène was always in two minds about everything, though, so he wasn't unduly concerned).

And then the mistress, standing patiently by the doors to the kitchen as she requested for her steak to be rare – _lots_ of people liked their steaks rare, it didn't mean– well, it didn't mean anything at all – the mistress had turned to Hélène as she'd stepped out of the kitchen, and had given her the most _radiant_ smile. The mistress had a smile that could melt ice and turn the legs of mortal men to jelly, and it had made up his wife's mind, at once, that she could be trusted.

But still, there was nothing really strange about that.

And yes, he supposed the master bore a passing resemblance to the face on the new AM$ notes, but anyone with a goatee and dark hair could look similar. It was a popular style for men of his age, and lots wore it specifically because it _was_ just like the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork's.

Alright, you couldn't really excuse those fantastic incisors on the mistress, but his Lordship wasn't the only man on the Disc with a vampire girlfriend, for goodness sake!

As it stood, he'd often discussed the exact nature of the relationship between the master and mistress with Hélène, who liked nothing more than to try and guess the stories behind their clients with the maids. The only conclusion they could reach was that, she was not his mistress, as they made no attempt to hide their presence, and whilst she did not wear his ring on her finger, there was something very _final_ about them; as if either of them being with another was simply illogical, and neither had ever even considered it. It wasn't because they were openly affectionate in public, quite the opposite, but it radiated from them in a way that was impossible to justify.

And yes, the master and mistress had visited the new clacks tower every day, and wrote extensive correspondence themselves to send back. Yes, they had their own personal thud and chess sets, and half a library between them. Yes, it did appear that their maid and manservant were having a little affair all of their own.

But you couldn't jump to silly conclusions just from coincidences. And Francois was a firm believer in coincidence.

Besides, it wasn't as if they'd done anything _strange_.

How was he to know who they were?


	7. Of Assassinations and Aberrance

It happened so fast that even he didn't see it coming.

It was a ridiculous concept to the members of the city that Lord Vetinari hadn't been able to foresee his own assassination. It seemed he had all the cards in his hand except his own. It was rumored that he knew the day every person under his charge would die – because he decreed it so – but he could not predict the day that he himself was supposed to shuffle off this mortal coil.

_Supposed_ being the key word.

It was very fortunate indeed, the public had reflected, that her Ladyship had been on the balcony beside him that day. It had also been incredibly fortunate that Selonius Abersmith had very nearly slipped before he fired his spring-gonne – he hadn't made a sound, but his heart rate had rocketed.

The arrow _had_ made a sound, as it left the contraption and sped through the air; enough of a sound for Vetinari to have spun around and for it to have turned his collar bone to splinters instead of hitting him straight through the neck.

And it would have done, had Lady Margolotta not neatly stepped in front of him the moment she heard the heartbeat. The arrow sunk between her ribs, just below the heart and piercing a lung. Rumour had it that Vetinari had reacted fast enough to hit the would-be-assassin with a dagger – previously hidden somewhere on his person – in the ankle, causing him to fall off the roof and into a handy bush beneath, and catch her Ladyship in time as she staggered.

And then – this was everyone's favourite bit – reportedly, Lady Margolotta von Uberwald had stood up, calmly removed the arrow from her chest, called in a voice that was barely weaker than her usual firm tone - "Igor," - who arrived at once with a small china bowl for her to spit her mouthful of blood into. And then she had sighed, before murmuring, "This was my favourite dress.", and passing out, back into his Lordship's arms.

The Watch had been first on the scene, followed swiftly by the Assassins Guild; apparently there had been a small dispute over who had jurisdiction over the rogue assassin, resolved by his Lordship, who convinced a reluctant Commander Vimes to hand the profusely bleeding young man over to Lord Downey.

The story had been far too good for anyone to question who the original witness was that reported it, and how the Patrician, whose personal life was usually so carefully left blank, had allowed such fine details to leak out to the general public.

-x-x-x-

"How are you feeling?"

Margolotta yawned, one hand covering her mouth daintily, and opened one eye. Lord Vetinari closed the door behind him silently with a foot, carrying a tray of crumpets and scones with a small teapot and teacup.

"Oh, how domestic," she purred, amused, "You've brought me midnight-feast-in-bed. Goodness, you didn't make them yourself, did you?"

He smiled wryly, "I am not such a confirmed bachelor that I cannot toast crumpets, madam."

"And the scones?"

"The servants all retired hours ago. Most of them believe that I don't sleep; I heard you stirring, and thought you ought to eat something." He placed the tray down on her lap, pulling up a chair beside her bed and sitting.

She smiled sadly, "I am exceedingly peckish, though for something rather less acceptable than dainties, I am afraid." His face flickered almost imperceptibly, and she quickly carried on, "However, as you have gone to such trouble, it is only polite that I partake of the fruits of your labour."

They sat in silence for a moment as she spread a thick layer of raspberry jam over half a scone, before adding a dollop of cream, and raising it to her lips, "My, you do know how to treat a lady," she murmured, laughing, before biting into it rather harder than necessary. She felt the gaze of his narrowed eyes on her, swallowed quickly, and asked, "Did you bring-?"

He produced the pack of cigarettes in question from somewhere about his person, and she took them thankfully. She lit one, and after her first drag, the trembling of her hands had reduced somewhat and the hint of something manic in her eyes had receded.

"It's been five years, almost to the day, since I went cold bat. It may have been my own blood in my mouth, but it was still _blood_; I had a choice to either pass out, or go into a blood-frenzy." She explained between long pulls from the cigarette.

"You chose the socially acceptable option," he smiled, "We have progress."

She chuckled, returning to her scone now that the edge had been taken off her urge. She placed the last of it in her mouth, dabbed her lips with a napkin, and then breathed in the steam from the tea.

"I chose the lesser of two evils, Havelock." She murmured.

"It will still have significant ramifications, I fear, if we cannot curb the ripples it has started."

She narrowed her eyes at him over the top of her teacup, "Do you honestly believe that it would have been easier if it had been your blood all over me, instead of mine?"

"Of course not," he replied levelly, his calm prompting her to take another drag from the rapidly disappearing cigarette to reduce her testiness, "But there are already rumours that I engineered the whole situation to prove your loyalty to me – or asses it. I have sent out counter-rumours, but the damage has been done."

Margolotta said nothing, but instead her jaw clenched a little, and she concentrated on buttering a crumpet.

Vetinari continued conversationally, "It will also be amusing when the Watch tries to reconstruct the scenario to work out where exactly Master Abersmith was firing from. I'm afraid you will rather mess up their mathematics."

"I had a split second to decide whether I wanted an arrow through my forehead or whether to have it somewhere less messy." Her tone was more amused than defensive, "Sally will point out the obvious when the time comes. And what of the boy? Why on the Disc would he-"

"The young Master Selonius' father was a mime."

Margolotta said, "Ah."

Vetinari rested his chin on his laced fingers in a speculative gesture, "When Miss Littlebottom from the Watch tests his blood sample, I am confident that she will find that he has at least two pints of the herb aberithium in his system, enough have made his pulse almost stop completely – which was why you didn't hear him until he nearly slipped."

"Interesting," Margolotta murmured, pausing in her snack to thoughtfully bite the end of her cigarette holder, "Will you have him meet the same fate as his father, or one of your usual bizarre acts of political unconventionality?"

"He is, regrettably, currently under the impression that he is a small aubergine pot plant on his mother's front porch."

"…Oh." She raised an eyebrow, "And how long before your lovely little watchmen take his mother into custody? I assume that she has previous petty offenses, and some sort of link to the Alchemists' Guild?"

"Attempted vandalism of the Palace, multiple assaults on a Watch officer, and her brother is an apothecary."

"Dear me, humans can be so predictable sometimes." She offered him an apologetic smile, "No offense meant; if anything, my species are far guiltier of that particular trait."

"None taken."

The Patrician watched her Ladyship as she took a careful bite of the crumpet, then another sip of tea. The drags on her cigarette were getting further apart. She reached out for the teapot to refill her cup, then winced almost imperceptibly as the movement disturbed her wound.

"You should not have bled nearly that much."

She stiffened a little, "Don't be melodramatic, Havelock; it does not suit you."

"How long does Igor believe it will take for you to heal?"

"A few days, a fortnight at the most."

"A fortnight," Vetinari's eyebrow arched in an expression that was nearly shock, "Your regenerative abilities are decreasing far faster than you predicted."

"Indeed," her lips curled, "It seems that, unless you wish to lose the pleasure of my company, next time you will have to find someone else to intervene in your assassination attempt."

"And how could I possibly wish that?"

He smiled gently at her. She smiled back. They both leaned forwards and rested their foreheads together in a rare moment of quiet intimacy.

"I have a limited lifespan, Havelock," Margolotta breathed, "Is that not strange? Thirty years ago, the notion of being so close to being human would have utterly disgusted me."

"And now?"

"It is a challenge. It elates me. It relieves me. It terrifies me. For the first time in my long life, I yearn for fulfilment of the soul and mind, over the body. Letting go of vampirism releases greater emotional capacity; it makes you more human. Now I feel _everything_." She sighed, "Which, granted, is a nuisance most of the time. But at this rate, I could die of old age before you do."

Vetinari arched an eyebrow, "It seems I am not the only melodramatic one."

"I'm just speculating," she smiled, then paused, her voice grew quiet, "Can you guess what the first thought that entered my head was, when I realised there was an assassin on the roof?"

He studied her eyes, saw the openness in them, and frowned.

"Margolotta. Don't be foolish."

"I wanted you to be safe. Isn't that ridiculous? For a split second, I was willing to forsake everything to keep you safe." She laughed, "And I, a vampire, ready to sacrifice myself for a human!"

"On that note, I don't believe I ever thanked you." He said gently. She shrugged.

"You're welcome." She took a long drag from her cigarette in a business-like manner. "Personally, I blame you."

Despite himself, he was unable to totally restrain a small smile. "Those human emotions that you are beginning to inherit?"

"Indeed. You are catching, you know; I seem to have caught the disease of human emotion."

Vetinari chuckled as she rolled her eyes.

"Bloody marvellous."


	8. Of Humans And Haecceity Part I

It was past two o'clock in the morning when the mist began to seep under his window.

It was the gentle hissing sound, like grains of sand sifting, that alerted him; his eyes flickered open and he watched as the pile next to the wall slowly grew. With a flourish, a figure pulled itself together through the vapour, its form solidifying and shuddering through the process.

A woman. Her skin glinted pearly-white in the moonlight and she shook the waves of dark hair from her face. She raised a dainty hand and snapped her fingers, the sign for a flood of silky material to pour down her body and clad her in an impressive evening dress. She walked smartly towards the bed, the rustle of her skirts an audible intoxication.

"You came."

"Of course." She dropped to her knees beside the bed, so they were eye to eye, and pressed her lips against his pale, thin, veined hand. "You thought I would not?"

"I thought it may be too much for you to bear. To watch me die."

She closed her eyes at his words, her mouth set in a grim line, "Must you-?"

"Margolotta," he rested his palm against her cheek, "You of all people know this is inevitable. You must accept it."

"I have seen death a thousand times over. But never someone…someone who…" She faltered and dropped her gaze to his sheets. He sighed.

"I know. It will be over soon, I promise."

"Over for you, perhaps!" she choked, her head snapping up to fix him with a furious gaze, "For me, the show must go on - and on, and on, until my sanity deserts me and I am killed in the dawn light by an indignant farmer!"

"You are being melodramatic, my dear." he said gently, his thumb running lightly down her jawline. She leant into the touch with a barely-sigh.

"Forgive me. Too much time around you humans has begun to affect my judgement." she took his hand in hers and held it to her chest, "Look at me, Havelock; you told me to change, to adapt, to command and to control. For a dark-haired young man with an old man's eyes, I denied my very self and _became_." Even on his deathbed, those ice-blue eyes did not melt and they bore into the crimson flames of hers, saturating them, quenching them.

She whispered, "The final lesson is taught. How do you like your pupil, Lord Vetinari?"

"How do you like _your_ pupil, madam? You know I am just as much yours as you are mine."

She gazed into that lined face and she heard him say, _yes, I meant every word_, though no words were uttered. Something inside of her broke.

"Oh gods, let me save you, Havelock, please, gods, let me save you." she blurted breathily. His expression shifted and she felt his hand tense between hers; she expected him to pull away, but he curled his fingers tighter.

"You know my position on that, Margolotta." he replied steadily.

"I cannot let you just fade away like this - for the man you have been, for the life you have led, it is too anticlimactic, too pathetic, too-"

"Human?" he smiled.

"But you are so much _more_ than just human!"

"I am perfectly human. And it is the perfect end to a life of constant turmoil and secrecy and lies, to pass gently on of natural causes. It is all I could have wished for."

Margolotta said nothing, dropping back down onto her heels, her eyes fixed on the floor in an effort to keep composure. Finally, she looked back at him.

"What can I do?" She whispered.

"Stay until I fall asleep?"

She smiled, taking his hand again and interlinking their fingers, "Of course."

Lady Margolotta sat on the edge of the bed and watched his piercing blue eyes disappear for the last time. His breathing grew heavy and slowed, until it finally stopped. And then she brought his knuckles to her lips, then touched her lips to his forehead.

And then she left, without looking back.


	9. Of Other Women and Obeisance

_The days were long and the nights so cold, _

_The pages turned and the tale unfolds,_

_He'd left me for another lady. _

_She stood so tall and she never slept,_

_There was not one moment he could regret, _

_He'd left me for another lady,_

_He took my hand one day, _

_And told me he was leaving, _

_Me disbelieving,_

_And I, I, I, I, I, I, I, _

_I had to let him go._

_- New York, Paloma Faith_

He was seeing another woman.

The woman was vitriolic and neurotic and oh-so demanding, and she held Havelock's life in the palm of her hand. She liked nothing more than to daily choke him, just to prove what a short lead he allowed her to keep him on; she would tug on it and laugh as he willingly wasted away, her prisoner.

She remembered the dark, beautiful days and nights they'd shared together in Uberwald, the time where she had foolishly assumed herself the keeper of his heart. Oh, it sounded terribly melodramatic and silly and the dream of a woman far younger than she, but she knew he would have given it to her, had it been his to give, just as she would have given hers, if it were still beating. If things had been different…

And how they'd loved, and how they'd struggled to hold onto those long hours, and she'd been happier than she'd been in over three hundred years.

The woman had given him leave of a few paltry weeks, and then she came at night, creeping into _their_ bed, whispering in his ear, bemoaning his betrayal and wailing and weeping that he'd left her, abandoned her. He'd tried to ignore her, but she slipped into his dreams and played on his mind when he awoke. The first word on his lips as his eyes opened, every morning, was her name.

He had no choice. He _had_ to return to her. It was as if staying away caused him physical pain, and her constant nocturnal onslaughts made him weary and haggard. He'd shrugged it off, pushed it away, but she could sense the conflict in his heart.

And then one morning, she'd seen it; in the turn of his mouth, the downcast gaze of his eyes, the way he looked at her when he thought she wouldn't notice, and drunk her in earnestly, as if trying to memorise every curve of her body and minute detail of her face. As if he'd never see her again.

He was leaving. He never said it, but she knew he would not stay another week.

He withdrew from her in what must have seemed, to him, a perfectly logical way of creating an emotional tourniquet. In her desperation and denial, she picked a fight to get a reaction - any reaction, and they spent two painful days and nights apart. He could not leave because of poor weather, but part of her hoped he was staying in the hope of a reconciliation.

She never got to the bottom of who gave into who, because in that last evening, it did not matter. They sat in his room on his bed and talked and talked and loved and loved, the whole night long. They drifted off in each others arms, the woman mercifully granting them restful sleep in return for the promise of his homecoming. In the morning the skies cleared.

As she stood in the doorway and watched the small black carriage disappear over the hills of Uberwald and out of her life, she realised. It had been creeping into her mind for a while now, but she'd smothered it and stomped on it and done her utmost to keep it buried.

It didn't matter that they were perfectly balanced equals. It didn't matter that he was the first person that she'd enjoyed a semi-functional relationship with in over two hundred years, and that she was the first person he'd had _any_ sort of relationship with. It didn't matter that, save from when she retired in the lightest hours of the day, they'd spent every hour together; in the bedroom, or in the library, playing chess or thinking up political schemes.

What mattered was that, as he'd sat there on the bed, in the early hours of the morning, staring out into space, it was the _other _woman that consumed his thoughts, not her.

And when she stopped and considered it, _really_ considered it, she had realised. It was rather embarrassing how a woman of over three centuries could be so naïve, so arrogant, so foolish.

Because whilst he had given his heart to her in that small Uberwaldean castle, Havelock Vetinari's soul was already knitted to _that_ woman, Ankh-Morpork; always had been, always would be. He was well and truly married to his city.

In the grand scheme of things, Margolotta realised that clear-skied morning, _she _had been doomed to be the Other Woman from the start_. _


	10. Of Parasols and Productivity

The sun beat down on the small Quirmian beach.

There was no sound but that of the waves, lapping the shore, the gentle _clack-clack _of heels on the wooden panels of the promenade and soft conversation. Two figures could be made out, working their way along the structure that jutted out to sea; one distinctly male, tall, slim, dressed in slick black trousers, a white shirt and an unbuttoned waistcoat; the other clearly female, small, dark, elegant in a long white flowing dress that was lightly buffeted by the wind, a very large floppy hat and a small red sunshade, which she carried over her shoulder.

She spun her parasol between her fingers as she walked, "Okay," she hummed, "What about Lipwig?"

"Six piles of paperwork on the desk. I made him sit in on seventeen appointments and I believe he took notes. I also have a direct clacks line to him in the office." He absently drummed his fingers on the back of her hand, which was tucked into the crook of his elbow.

She shook her head and regarded him over the top of her large round sunglasses, "Then why are you fretting?"

"And what evidence has led you to conclude that I am, as you say," he gestured with his free hand, "_Fretting_?"

"Your body language; you're not _relaxed_."

"You'll have to be more specific than that, I'm afraid."

She pulled her arm away and placed her hands on her hips, stopping their stroll down the promenade. "Fine. Your shoulders are tensed, you're distracted - it took you a whole three seconds extra to solve the crossword this morning. You thought I didn't notice? I noticed. You spent ten minutes, whilst I was getting dressed, just staring out of the window and frowning. You've been drumming your fingers on my hand for the last five minutes, and when you stand still," she pointed to his foot with the butt of her umbrella, "You _tap_. You're agitated and anxious."

He glanced out across the flashing ultramarine waves, before returning his gaze back to her, "It would be highly illogical for me to not be. Are you not?"

"I know that I have spent weeks setting everything up in Uberwald, anticipating every eventuality - winding up the clock, if you will, so that it will keep ticking on nicely and won't need another wind for at least another two months. And you have done the same, and we have spent the last thirteen minutes going through every single measure, countermeasure, and counter-countermeasure you have put in place to keep things stable." She took his arm again and squeezed it, "Everything will be fine."

"There is no way that you could possibly predict whether-"

"I give up!" She threw her hands up in the air and marched away, clutching the parasol over her shoulder as if it were an axe, or something equally threatening, "I knew you would be like this! You said that it would be an _experiment, _the next _logical_ step, you were really _positive _about it!"

"Margolotta-"

"I should have known it was too good to be true, that you'd never _relax_ or just enjoy yourself."

She reached the railing at the end of the promenade and balled her free fist on it, spinning the parasol furiously in her other hand. It took three of his long strides to catch up with her and had to dodge to avoid it, very nearly losing an eye for his troubles. He waited until the speed of the twirling sunshade had slowed and the tension had disappeared from her jaw before he placed his hand gently over her first.

"I enjoyed last night." he corrected her, quietly.

She fixed her eyes sternly on the horizon and did not speak.

"I'm sorry if I have been…distracted." he sighed, "Morporkia is relentless."

She stiffened, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, "Already? You've only been gone a fortnight."

"I think she's jealous." He speculated, absently rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.

"Its about time _she_ has the opportunity to be." She murmured, pulling away her hand and turning to walk back, but he could hear the smile in her voice. He followed her and interlaced his fingers with hers, holding back a grin as she did not resist.

"So," he bounced lightly on his bare heels, "We have about an hour before Igor gets back with the afternoon's clacks; what would you like to do?"

"I have never been to the seaside before - the undead tend to avoid warm and sunny places. What is the correct protocol?"

He shrugged, "Last time I went, I was nine years old and it rained all week, so we never actually got onto the beach. I have been reliably informed, however, that it involves ice cream."

"That sounds promising." She smiled, "And what then?"

Their feet met hot, soft sand, which sunk with every footfall. She slipped off her shoes and looped the straps around the wrist of the hand that held the parasol, the other gripping his arm tightly as they staggered their way over the ground. It shortly gave way to a vast expanse of pebbles, which proved easier to navigate with both hands for balance.

"Well," he continued, making a careful path across the larger, more stable rocks, and offering her a hand to help her down off the last one, "Unless you have any particular desire to go and explore rock pools, paddle in the sea, or build a miniature of your home in sand, I suggest we set up the recliners and enjoy the weather."

"A fantastic idea. We ought to get some drinks," As they crossed the small sea of sand dunes and wild grass back towards the chalets, she scoured the beach from end to end, "I can't see Mina anywhere, they were just here when we left…"

"Drumknott informed me that he and Miss Healstether were hoping to create a report on the plant and bacterial life present at low tide. I would imagine that they are currently out making their records."

"Well…I am sure they will have a fantastic time." She raised her eyes to the sky to indicate her train of thought was entirely innocent, "They are certainly getting along very well…"

"Very well indeed." Vetinari smiled, and nothing more needed to be said.

In front of the chalet, where the edge of the sand dunes met the rather sizable and well-kept lawn, were two striped deck chairs set up, with a large umbrella propped strategically so that it covered all of one and most of the other. The positioning also meant that the occupiers could rest their belongings on the grass, their feet on the warm sand, and look out at the endless blue of the slowly returning tide.

If Margolotta had not been a vampire, she would have flopped into her chair. However, as she was, her movements were more like a catlike pounce and stretch. She leant back, arms behind her head and eyes closed, a small, contented smile curling the corners of her lips. "I should have gone on holiday years ago." she breathed, "I thought the peace would bore me, but it is nothing short of idyllic."

"I must admit, it is a pleasant change from the broiling waters of politics." he conceded.

She opened one eye, "Igor?"

The patchwork butler was at once at her elbow, "Yeth, Mithreth?"

"Could you be a dear and fetch us some drinks? I saw some rather nice Claret in the cabinet." she glanced over her shoulder at her companion, who was resting his elbows on the top of her chair, "Wine, Havelock? Oh, Igor has been learning to make cocktails, I'm sure he could fetch you something exciting, if you wanted?"

He laughed at the feline grin and shook his head, "Wine will do me perfectly, thank you."

"Out of curiosity, Igor, what cocktails _have_ you learnt to make?"

"My repertoire includeth but ith not limited to; Woo-Hoo, Klatchian Thandal, The Purple One and Thex on the Beach." Igor listed.

"Oh," Margolotta kept a well-practised pokerface, "Well, we'll have to try at least one before the holiday is out, won't we, Havelock?"

"I wouldn't dream of letting such expertise go to waste." He answered smoothly.

Igor did a bobbing sort of bow in response and sidled off.

"That ability of his is rather unnerving," Vetinari eyed the bushes suspiciously, "How does he manage to stay permanently in earshot?"

"I find it best not to speculate. Apparently, its hereditary."

In the comfortable pause that followed, he watched; he watched the sea, watched the waves breaking on the shore, followed the path of a small Quirmian boy as he chased a dog along faraway dunes, and watched Margolotta settle in her chair and relax.

He waited for a moment, before making his silent way around in front of her. He concluded that she was about three minutes away from a light nap, which meant that he had two options - either he could leave her to snooze most of the afternoon away and catch up on her natural sleeping pattern, or he could take the perfect opportunity to make her jump and enjoy her very pleasant, if consequently grumpy, company for the next few hours instead.

How often did he get the chance to indulge his trivially selfish side? Mind made up, he leant forward, placing one hand on either side of the chair, ready to take her by surprise with a kiss-

And he would have done, had the chair not, in the way typical of deck chairs, collapsed with no prior warning.

She let out a shriek, and the wind was knocked out of both of them as he landed on top of her. They lay, sprawled, for a few moments, completely startled at suddenly finding themselves on the ground. He lifted his head to see - far from the irritation he had expected - amusement writ all over her face.

"You broke the chair. I cannot believe you have managed to break the chair _already_."

"Deck chairs are notoriously unstable. There must have been a screw loose somewhere." He began to sit up, before his brain pointed out that this was a ridiculous thing to do because he currently had a rather warm pneumatic pillow, and that was not a situation to take for granted. The thought distracted him for long enough for Margolotta to notice his reluctance with a smirk.

"Either get up and help _me_ up, dear, or find something more productive to do." She purred.

And so productivity increased.

Until Igor got back, that is.


	11. Of Humans and Haecceity Part II

A single finger ran in a horizontal path across the tomes, clearing a trail through the dust and scattering specks into the air. When it reached the last book, the finger was lifted for inspection - and then swiftly cleaned.

"Igor has been cultivating again." The under-the-breath statement from the slightly disgruntled female source cut the silence of the library. Book perusal continued with significantly less physical contact.

"I might have known you'd try this."

Lady Margolotta von Uberwald froze. She held her breath, counted to _zehn_ in her head, then slowly pirouetted towards the source of the sound.

"Oh gods it _worked_." she blurted, her shoulders slumping in relief. One hand ran down her face, covering her mouth as she leant back against the bookcase for support.

"You had doubts?"

"I might never have seen you again," she hissed, but the anger was only half-hearted, "I think I had sufficient cause to be concerned with the success of my plan."

"And was your plan successful, madam?"

Margolotta looked at him, and took him in. Looking at his face was a strange experience; he seemed, all at once, to be both the incompliant wise-eyed youth that still sauntered through her dreams, and the sleek, gently amused older man that she had fallen for all over again. Somehow, he embodied the strongest traits that he had possessed at both stages in his life.

He stepped from the shadows, allowing her to cast her approving eye over him. His hair was longer than it had been in adulthood, but it was still slicked back, and there was something of a beard about his face – or perhaps his chin was just pointer than she remembered. When she concentrated, she could see the goatee and carefully shaped facial hair, though as he moved, it faded into the familiar 3-day old shadow along his jaw that he had sported the first time he visited her. He was tall and slim, as he had always been, possessing a wiry kind of strength and speed that defied his build. His cheekbones were high and prominent, his face just a little lined, but the eyes-

His eyes were glacier blue and whilst the features of his face continued to alter subtly under her gaze, his eyes never changed. He saw her bemusement over the intangibility of his appearance and grinned. It was the grin of a young man.

_Gods_ she had missed that grin.

"I am not yet sure." she breathed. She reached out her hand to him, spreading her fingers in mid-air. He lifted his own to meet hers, just pressing the very tips of each digit together. And there was no ghostly rush, there was no chilly sweat down her palm, there was no _coldness_ - only a gentle warmth, and he was tangible to her. Perhaps more tangible than he had ever been in life.

"Was it successful, Margolotta?" Havelock prompted, a laugh in his voice and that wonderful slash of a smile still across his face.

"Yes," she gasped, throwing her arms around him.

They kissed for a long time. It ought to have been wildly romantic and passionate and involve lots of picking-up-and-swinging-around in the light of the setting sun or the pouring of a deluge - they were, after all, two lovers reunited after certain death - though the fact that it was cloudy and drizzling and they were both technically _dead_ put rather a dampener on narrative convention.

It didn't matter. Neither of them had ever cared much for romance, and it was a particularly nice kiss, as kisses went. After a while they pulled back and just stood, drinking in the feeling of being together.

He poked her lightly in the ribs, his lips curling up at the corners. "You know, I am still shocked that you would play with the minds and beliefs of thousands of people for your own ends."

"_My_ own ends?" she scoffed, "And we both know that _you _were the one who suggested it."

"I did no such thing."

"Exactly. And you knew I'd pick up it because you didn't say it."

They sat down together on the cushy, chintz-upholstered chaise-lounge. It was sumptuous enough to be comfortable, without swallowing them entirely between its cushions. Vetinari sat, legs crossed tailor-style, his chin rested on one fist and elbow on his knee. Margolotta slipped off her shoes and curled her legs beneath her daintily, turning to face him. Now the emotional side was temporarily satiated, it was back to business.

"Helping Lipwig with his speech was a nice touch, but I'm not sure about the statue."

"Its gaudy, but it serves its purpose." She shrugged, "How long have you been…?"

"Corporeal? No more than a day. It took me a little while to explore the boundaries of my new abilities; it was necessary to find a test subject to interact with, and Mister Lipwig was already teetering on the edge from the events of the last week or so, so it did not seem fair to abuse him further."

"So who did you-" Realisation dawned on her face, "Oh, Havelock, you _didn't_…"

"Downey nearly fell out of his chair when he saw me, but he's convinced I'm just a figment of his imagination." His grin widened by a few molars, "He shrieked aloud when he saw 'SCAG' written on the top of his letter, though."

Margolotta gave him an admonishing slap on the shoulder, but the effect was ruined by her own grin. "Your abilities?" she prompted.

"I am, for lack of a better word, solid. At least for the most part; if I concentrate on not being seen, I can become semi-translucent." He held up a hand for demonstration, frowning until his fingers began to fade. She reached out, swiping neatly through him, before nodding in approval.

"Very interesting."

"Indeed. I can also teleport short distances - which, unfortunately, is exhausting - and I appear to have acquired a small amount of psychic capability."

"You can read people's minds?" Margolotta laughed, shaking her head, "The power of belief!"

"As for my physical appearance - from what I have observed, it seems to depend on the eye of the beholder. The person sees me as I stand in their mind's eye, which is _incredibly_ useful," he nodded towards her, "As you can imagine."

"But of course. Anyone who knows of your death will merely dismiss you as a ghost or a figment of their overactive fancy, rendering you essentially invisible." She grinned brightly at him, tongue just visible between her sharp pearly teeth, "Gods, Havelock, this excellent, you should have died years ago!"

He ignored the jibe with a roll of his eyes, "You, however, seem to be having a little difficulty as to how you picture me. Could you please be a little more decisive?" He rubbed his chin, "It is rather uncomfortable having to regrow a beard every few minutes."

"Very well." She concentrated, and he felt stubble ripple along his jaw and upper lip, his limbs lengthen, and a few streaks of silver shoot through his hair.

He climbed up to examine himself in the polished chest-plate of a nearby suit of armour. He glanced back at her, eyebrows raised, "I thought you would choose something a little younger; old habits, etc.?"

"I rather like the mature look on you." she stood and followed him over, "Besides, I've grown awfully fond of that ridiculous goatee." With a laugh, she playfully rubbed the offending bristles. He drew himself up in mock indignation, then relaxed with a grin.

_Relaxed_, he thought. How long had it been since he'd relaxed? Since he'd genuinely joked around with Margolotta - or with anyone? He hadn't been a joking-around type person in life, but it seemed that he was making up for it in spades ever since. It was probably the influence of his younger self's reappearance, full to bursting with hormones and justified arrogance. Even something as minute as having his facial hair back immediately made him feel more level-headed, more in control.

He pushed the somewhat troubling thoughts aside and concentrated on examining his appearance instead. He scrubbed a hand down his face, "No prominent wrinkles; my vanity gives you thanks."

"You're welcome. Let's have a go at the rest of you, then."

Obediently, he straightened up. Under her watchful gaze, he patted himself down, feeling muscle tone build beneath his hands wherever he touched, over his chest and stomach, and swelling in his arms. He smirked at her, "Flattered, I'm sure."

His eyes widened as he felt alterations elsewhere. He glanced down, before raising his eyebrows sternly and pointing a very firm finger, "None of that, please."

She held up her hands, sparkling a smile towards him that promised innocence absolutely radiated from every pore. "Just making sure everything is how I remember it, darling."

"Hmmm." was the unconvinced response. She advanced towards him, but as he turned, his attention was caught by the view from the library window; pink streaks darted across the dark expanse as the sleepy sun crept up over the horizon. The morning sky had begun to clear, and in the distance, the lights of Ankh-Morpork's outermost clacks towers were vaguely visible. Margolotta held back, sensing that this reminder was what had suddenly turned her companion pensive.

"A remarkable view indeed." he murmured.

Margolotta nodded. The sting of seeing him standing in her library, in her home, physically so close but mentally so far away, immersed in his beloved city, was familiar and brought back memories of the last time his feet had palmed those floorboards. In response, his beard disappeared, his black suit jacket faded into a shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a waistcoat, and his slicked hair gained more volume and curled rebelliously at the ends. That was how he had taken to styling it for most of his Sneer visit - pushed back messily out of habit more than a desire to look well-groomed - partly because he had found much more exciting things to spend his time on, and partly because he seemed to have finally learnt how to _relax_.

The memory made her smile, but she watched his face carefully, "What will you do now?"

He was silent for a moment, his back to her as he gazed out of the window at the rolling hills of Uberwald.

"You know," he said, finally, "When I close my eyes, I can see it all; every street, every house, every person. Everything is right there, just at the very tips of my fingers."

She stepped closer, and saw his eyelids flicker shut.

"Yes…There they all are…Lipwig is talking with his wife before a meeting…Downey is taking breakfast…De Worde is asleep at his desk…A thousand bustling, living people. They're all right there. There, and in here." He tapped the side of his head.

"Will you make yourself known to them, do you think?"

"Not directly, no. Though, it shouldn't be too difficult to convince Lipwig that I am a ghost, or something equally ridiculous, returned from the afterlife to make sure he doesn't mess everything up. At this moment in time, I do believe he will accept anything that will lift the burden of responsibility even a little."

She stood by his side at the window and watched him out of the corner of her eye. "You didn't answer my first question."

He pursed his lips, and said, eventually, "I am going to do what I have always done."

"Ah," she murmured, "Your ever-jealous city still demands your attention. You will watch from the rooftops as the puppetmaster; pulling strings and pushing people ever so gently, until one day the mechanism is so well greased and cogs so well formed that it will run all by itself."

"An interesting metaphor that, I suppose, is accurate in its own way."

"Is that not your plan?"

"I originally planned to have the city in such a state before my death, but such is the unpredictability of life and its deterioration, I was forced to adapt. I am confident that with the added factor of my death, as well as my post-mortem assistance, Lipwig - and the city as a whole - will only need my influence for a few years, and then Ankh-Morpork will be able to sustain itself."

Margolotta smiled, "We live in interesting times."

"Indeed." He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, "Of course, as I am now effectively the anthropomorphic personification of Ankh-Morpork, I will have to continue pay _special_ attention to her interests."

Margolotta kept a spectacular straight face, "Special attention?"

"Of course. I couldn't have such _close_ allies of Ankh-Morpork feeling…neglected."

She arched an eyebrow as he moved closer, "And which close allies are we talking about - Genua? Lancre? Queen Ptraci of Djelibeybi?"

"No, I'm referring to an even closer ally, who, over the last few decades, really hasn't received the amount of attention they deserve."

She gave up on her pokerface when his lips grazed her neck.

"Oh gods, does this mean I'm going to have you skulking around my castle making a nuisance of yourself for the next few centuries?"

"Three hundred and twelve years, give or take eight months and depending on weather conditions." he muttered against her skin. She rolled her eyes.

"I'm not even going to ask how you worked that one out." she pulled back and pushed him away, "And its going to be three hundred and twelve years give or take eight months of _strictly_ out-of-office hours, because _you_ may be permanently retired but _I_ still have a highly volatile country to run, and a quadruple bluff of a potentially-secret-lover in potentially-secret-mourning to hold up!"

"Yes, I suppose that act would be rather ruined if anyone caught us together." A dangerous yet rather endearing kind of curiosity sparked in his eyes, "It would be a very interesting exercise in improvisation, however."

"One that I vote we avoid." She said smartly. Havelock shrugged lightly and gave her a small smile.

"Very well. As we are, as the phrase goes, on _your_ home turf, so I suppose I can adhere to your rules."

"Hmm, I like the sound of that," She purred as she stepped closer again, fingers lifting to curl around the lapels of his shirt, "Can I have that in writing?"

He arched an eyebrow, "_You_ said strictly out-of-office hours."

The beard and dark robes of state returned, and his smile turned wry rather than mischievous. They were back to business.

"…I have a meeting with Seraphine and the doggies in two hours." Margolotta conceded with a sigh, resting her forehead against his shoulder, "And a League board meeting at six which I need to plan for."

"Go and prepare." he gave her arm a light squeeze, "I daresay I can postpone my plans in the city until tomorrow; go, and I'll be here when you get back."

"You won't creep off back to the city?"

He rolled his eyes and tapped the back of a chair beside them, "I'll be right here, I promise."

Satisfied, she stepped away and was halfway across the room when she noticed a wine glass she had emptied earlier that morning. On a whim, she plucked it from the windowsill, pirouetted neatly and flourished it at him in a toasting gesture.

"To the afterlife." she said.

He inclined his head and flashed her the grin of a young man, "To the perks of being dead."


	12. Of Warmth and Waiting

She wakes up when it is just growing light.

He is still beside her. Her sleep cycle is rather erratic - it is not an easy feat to adjust to 'mortal' time after several centuries of being nocturnal – so she often wakes to find the bed empty, the floor absent of his clothes and sometimes, if he is feeling particularly sentimental, a short note on the pillow. He doesn't need to explain himself; she can afford to be a little less punctual because her country tends to do most of its business by night, but he has a city that never sleeps.

This morning she has woken a little earlier than usual. Judging by what she can see of the position of the sun, and the particular sounds she can already hear from the street outside, it is a little before five, so he has an hour or so before Drumknott brings the newspaper and the first reports of the day into his office.

It is quite a luxury to watch him sleep, curled on his side towards her, sheets around his hips, with one arm tucked under the pillow and the other draped lightly over her waist. Exposed. Vulnerable. Heat rolls off him in slow waves; the one thing she always forgets, and always loves, is how warm he is. His usual slicked back hairstyle has been replaced by endearing dishevelment, errantly curling jet black with a few streaks of silver. His beard needs a trim, she thinks, brushing his jawline lightly with her fingers. She notes the patches of grey there too, and suddenly the lines on his face become all too visible – across his forehead, between his eyebrows, under his eyes – the fingerprints of time's slowly tightening grasp.

She feels a clench in the heart that does not beat. She knows he works himself hard to maintain a high standard of fitness, and that he has aged incredibly well, but he has still _aged_, and it is painful to see. She wants to…she wants to gather him in her arms and beat off the future years, hold him forever in one silent moment that cannot be stolen by time.

She watches his chest fall with an exhalation, and a lifetime seems to pass before it rises again, and the room seems to have cooled, and he looks awfully pale and still and-

She cannot help it; she takes his face in her hands and he wakes to see her eyes wide with panic. He blinks slowly, groggily, yawns, and says, "Mmm?"

She watches him yawn a second time before turning away, rolling onto her side and curling up, "Nothing." She murmurs. Just a stupid thought, a stupid moment. She is relieved and a little embarrassed, yet still sick to the stomach, because she knows the moment she dreads has not gone, only been postponed.

He shuffles up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist, chest pressed against her back, legs curled around hers and his breath ghosting on her neck. She feels his warmth permeating her cool skin, his fingers tracing absent patterns on her ribs, the occasional touch of his lips on her shoulder.

"What is it?" he asks, his voice a low rumble in her ear. She presses herself further back into his arms, submerging herself totally in his embrace, and does not reply. He doesn't push it.

She closes her eyes and tries to memorise the moment – the heat, the smell, the touch. He spoke to her once of mind palaces, and she thinks that if she had a house containing all of her memories, she would remove the ones pertaining to the last fifty years, then burn the rest to the ground.

She doesn't want to have to remember; she doesn't want this moment to pass.

Inevitably, it does.

"I need to get up," he sighs, "You're welcome to stay, but the maids will be in at seven and-"

She turns her head to look at him over her shoulder, and smiles, "I know, Havelock. We've done this enough times for me to remember the drill."

He smiles back and kisses her, before disentangling himself from her and the sheets. He paces around the room methodically, collecting his trousers and shirt and waistcoat and jacket and the various other items of his clothing that they strew around the room the night before, depositing them all in the washing basket for the maids to collect, then going to the wardrobe to fetch a clean and identical outfit.

She sits on the bed, chin resting on her knees, and shamelessly ogles him the whole time. She knows that he knows that she is watching, and the fact that he doesn't react to it somehow makes it all the more satisfying.

When he is standing at his mirror, fixing his cravat, she climbs out of bed. She stands next to the mirror, naked, and watches him go through the motions of fixing his collar and doing up his cufflinks.

"Be gone, temptress," he mutters, without taking his eyes off his own refection, "I am already dressed and will not be lured back to bed."

She smirks, "Like you don't want to be lured back to bed."

"Like you don't want me to want to be lured back to bed." He counters somewhat distractedly as he smoothes back his hair. She laughs and he turns to her, pausing just to drink in the sight of her. She preens a little under his gaze. He leans in and she grabs him by the newly-tied cravat, kissing him soundly, grinning against his mouth when she feels his warm hands immediately seek out her curves.

Moments later, she pulls back, "Go on, then. They're waiting for you."

"They?"

"Morporkia and Miss Speaker. The two loves of your life."

He rolls his eyes, "Indeed." He mutters dryly.

"Oh, don't play innocent, I know all about your little _affair du coeur_ through the crosswords." She leans against the mirror, smirking playfully, "Maybe I'll find out where Grace lives, turn up at her house, seduce her and we'll team up against you. You wouldn't stand a _chance_."

He shakes his head, walking towards the door, "You do that."

She is fine until the moment she sees his hand alight on the door handle, and then that crippling sense of loss returns. She wants to run to him and pin him to the wall or drag him back to bed or hold him until he promises not to leave her because today she is feeling so dreadfully morbid and has the strangest sensation that she may never experience this again. Her brain knows that this is ridiculous and that he is a perfectly healthy man and many upper-class humans live well into their eighties now, but-

But she stays where she is standing and obeys their unspoken rules. The job comes first. The city comes first. She may own his heart, but Morporkia had majority shares in his soul since the day he was born.

He goes to open the door, then hesitates and looks back to her. She smiles.

"Would you grant me a favour?" he asks quietly.

"Depends on the favour."

"Don't stay away too long. Please."

The request is surprisingly tender for him; he the tyrant, the stoic, the iceman. She swallows, then nods, "I'll be back within the month," she promises, knowing that it will be almost impossible to fix things so that she can visit again within two, and knowing that he also knew.

He takes one last, long look at her, then leaves. She watches him walk out of the room, walk out of their little moment in time and walk out of her life, perhaps for the last time, her newly-awakened hyper-morbidity reflects.

Margolotta climbs back into bed, pulls the sheets up to her chin and considers how terrible it is to love something that death can touch.


End file.
